With Love, This Women's Month

---"Being a strong woman is very important to me. But doing it all on my own is not"--- Reba McEntire


 

Alright, so if you follow most of these post you may have been aware and possibly agitated by the fact that almost every single one is synonymous with either struggle, pain, oppression, depression or fighting the power and so on and so fourth and staff like that. In all honesty, I myself have had a tad much with these melancholy notes and so I chose to miss you with the struggle talk just this once. Now you are probably wondering, if I’m not here to speak about black liberation or white supremacy or the struggles of our ancestors or the new but old world order then what am I here to ramble on about. The answer is women.

I have always worn my feelings towards women on my sleeve, I admire women, all of them; there are no exceptions- we swim in the same pool of emotions, we are all connected in our battles, that is why I value every single one of them, that is why to me every one of you daughters of the universe represents a rare and precious gift to all human kind.

And because I love you women of earth, I went out of my way to conduct a bit of research to find out some of our most publicly visible and insanely annoying peeves. If you do not have the heart to bear the contents below then I apologize shem, these opinions come from various individuals of both sexes across a rather vast age range so do not shoot me as I am only the messenger. It is because I love you all so much that I chose to aggregate the sort of information that could potentially work towards your advantage- only if you keep an open mind though.

Alright. So here goes, we will first address the issue of public indecency.  Look, I myself am all for that freedom of expression talk, gift of free will, right to choice- that independent woman chanting but unfortunately ladies this research suggests that we turn it down a notch when it comes to those see through leggings, the sometimes well meaning but turn out to be indelicate camel toes. In the words of another, quit parading half naked to satisfy your greed for attention. The underlying message here is for one to dress for their body size, no extra meats popping out from clothing items and for women to get back to respecting their bodies. I know and understand that we all want admiration, especially from the opposite sex but if you go looking for it in that manner, it will impede your dignity, self worth and the initial respect that people hold for you. This, and so much more is what leads to men and some of our emotionally mature counterparts calling us out on lack of self-value and identity. I will end this chapter here.

On to the baby mamas, bitter ex girlfriends’ and the side chicks. I personally understand that times are tough, everyone needs a little loving empa ho thoe ke le joetse hore le be bitle ka manyofo-nyofo le ho ferekana joalo ka ha eka le malinyane a li fariki. Always know your place and do not come interfering in relationships trying to settle scores, it only makes you seem resentful.

We are apparently too noisy ladies and this makes us look ridiculous and infantile. Personally I don’t quite understand whether this implies that the majority of us talk too much or we talk too loud but either way most hold the opinion that we need to tone it down -especially in public arenas, ladies are seen and not heard.

This breast feeding in public issue unsettles a lot, surprisingly it popped up more than I had expected it would, so to you the baby mamas who feed the kids, too many people out here say they don’t want to see those “stretch marked, saggy leaking tadaaas all whipped out without a care in the world”. This is the reason why baby bottles were created and if you really have no other choice then at least make the effort to cover them up from the glaring looks of passer bys.

I will not get into the weaves versus natural hair talk as we have exhausted this topic since the very first batch of weaves was shipped from India or Brazil or Peru, we know very clearly how the minority feels about this trend, the only valuable piece of advice was that if you choose to go that route then take care of yours- there is no excuse to walk around looking like there’s a dead skunk on your head. I do not want to take up too much time on the issue of make up either- the trick here is to never over do it, as a woman myself, I’ve never quite understood the tweeze it all of and draw it back on eyebrow phenomenon that has some people looking like they were sponsored by nikey.  

This one hit me hard because I personally relate to it. Probably the best standpoint as far as this post goes. I will not paraphrase, as that would be an injustice, “Black women must get over this ‘strong woman’ act that they put on! They go out of their way to prove how “strong” they are by being aggressive and too confrontational. U ko utloe ausi oa Mosotho ha a re o tlo neha motho “damn”! These are unnecessary theatrics! I however also understand that it is just attention seeking exercises because black men are absent. These women crave their attention”. I know more women than I wish to mention who are walking these streets with stone stiff shoulders as a result of the burdens they bear. I know of women that can’t keep onto a good man because they fight too hard to be their equal instead of their lover. I console women, myself included who parade these streets with colgate smiles and hearty laughs only to go home to lonely thoughts, wet pillows and swollen eyes. I also know that women need to get over this ‘strong’ role they have inherited. 

Let this be the last words of advice. This was a personal lesson for me that came down from those that have lived and experienced more than I have. This is generational advice that we must heed because it will save you from a lot of distress as you move along. Sometimes we are too open, a bit brutal in our honesty- this is not necessary. Three women sat me down some week’s back, two married for over ten years and the other in a long-term relationship. They said to me they realize I am too honest in my relationships and if I want their survival I would have to refrain from this. Truth is I am not even at all that honest- I can hardly omit my truth, I am the friend that will not smile and nod agreeingly if you ask me how that hideous dress looks on you- I am not going to tell you to forgive your cheating, lying sorry excuse of a man when you come crying on my shoulder and equally I’m going to call you out on that ratchet behavior should you get out of order. I am going to do this because I love you and I want what’s hopefully best for you, I am going to let you know as it is because I don’t want you becoming the laughing stock of the town, we find pride in keeping one another down, getting back and even with each other, we do not look out for each other and so my being honest is playing my part- however small it my be- in an effort to unify women. So this last piece of advice is that you remain honest yes, but always keep in mind that some truths need not be said, some are worth keeping to yourself because its not everyone that can handle your attempt to stay open and sincere with them. Pick the truths you decide to share with others wisely.

So there you have it bana ba nkhono Kholu. I will go no further in the hope that you have read enough. I believe in the beauty of your being and of your deeds.  

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

Daddy's Song Unsung

---This song is sung to a soldier that still treads on dirt to create his mark. These melodies are formed in honour, to a legend that lives through my eyes. These words swing in rhythms for a champion whose records have vanished into blurry visions---

I have, ever since the creation of this blog space, and perhaps for the few months that led to it, grown to become a blog fiend, I follow blogs and religiously stalk (in a very normal way though) their owners- it helps me understand and bond with their writings at a more personal level. It is through this digging into blog crates that I came across one writer, who said that unless we write from the heart then we compromise our own integrity and also of that which we believe in.

So I have justified and spoken for my writings- For why I collect words and pen them from such personal spaces, for why I sound angry even through cheery jargon, for why I bear my soul and my heart between these sentences. I cannot disband myself from that which I write, I cannot write unless it is of a personal experience- regardless of whether it is mine or of one of my own.

It is from the authenticity of which my writings derive from that I heal myself. That I look for ways to attract to this place and also heal those that share similar stories of pain, the joys of my struggle and the mourning behind my achievements. I write in the hope that I somehow, by just a mile- touch the grieving hearts of those that need emotional healing the most. It is in that same light that I sing a song today.

I sing this song in low tones and reluctant melodies for I am not too certain if it should be sung. I am skeptical of the feelings it might evoke, not from anyone else but from the places in my sub-conscious that I have chosen to abandon. I have said enough.

I will sing this song unsung anyway.

A Song Unsung

She sang a song that was never sung

She sang a song to him so he wouldn’t go unsung

See his was a life of a king

And she- The princess that today has come to sing

She sings a song for a man whom she wishes to forget

A man who has seized to live but chose instead to exist

Whose perception of self he has lost

She comes to sing a song unsung

To a nonentity hero undeserving of these harmonious praises

Yet she still belts out this tune

In tribute of a common man with astounding tales

The captain from which her entire being hails

She sings this song still unsung

To a man from whose seed she sprung

Back in the days when things were cool and living was just. She was daddies little princess, his perfect little creation, his sourced design, a clone of sorts, flawlessly replicated in every sense and every way.

Daddy, I sing this song for you today

For too long I kept my feelings at bay

For these tough times you’ve endured, I’ve had nothing to say

It was humanity that led our bond astray

For the longest time all I did was pray

That I would be four years again and in your arms

Or even a twenty something year old and we’d still lock palms

Daddy I sing this song for you

In this rare moment of self praise

Remember daddy the hell we used to raise?

So much of me is still you  

She was daddies little girl. Those that know could tell of their bond, the perfect Clyde and his little Bonnie, conquering worlds together, hand in hand, hearts were clasped; thoughts too similar, she and daddy lived like Siamese. He had once meant the world to her, he had been a protector, and a shield of comfort, safe was her in his company, gentle auras whisked in his presence. 

 

Do you remember the times daddy?

When everywhere you went I’d go?

You were the champion that walked proud with that ridiculous looking fro’

Do you remember the times daddy?

When we popped bottles together

I the orange juice and you the kind that makes everything better

And we would go on sipping ‘till nothing would matter

Like it was just you and me against the world

All the pain I encountered you also felt

Do you remember the times?

When we would kick back on Saturdays

Wiled out in the kitchen creating recipes

Or how you’d sneak in teachings on the birds and the bees

Do you still reminisce of those times?

When you read me bed time stories that came with the chimes?

Remember how you took reading so seriously

And you taught me to always look at the world curiously

Do you recall daddy?

How we would just up and hit the road

To visit angry shores and calming waves

Take long walks in foreign lands where Bushmen once lived in caves

Do you remember those days?

Do you miss them like a do?

This loss of opportunity, do you rue?

Over days gone by, moments never to be regained

Of our plans that life chose to taint

Do you remember those days?

She was daddies little girl, ask her now she might deny it but deep down she still longs for the days when she waited up for daddy to come home just so they could lay on the couch and watch recorded episodes of the Wayans Brothers all night long. Nights came but daddy never did, she is a grown woman now, gone are little girl fantasies of getting lost in laughter. And now not Shawn and Marlon, not Dwayne or even Damon can lessen this hollowness in her or fill these empty spaces, where her daddy’s heart once was.  

Until next post,

Africa Rising , Peace & Revolution...

All Pretty Girls Have Secrets

---Fiona once told me all pretty girls have secrets. I did not believe her then but the world has since opened my eyes to this truth---

 

Back in Natal during my undergraduate days, carefree and sunshine filled days- long before money and jobs became a pressing priority; Makhabo would fling the door to my room open at any time of day. Sometimes she would come in, throw a shrewd comment or two regarding the state of my room and then she would be out, other days she would come in and sit for hours while we talked about critical issues of the world and then sometimes she would waltz in as though she owned that space, sit in complete silence and we would remain in that, just basking in one another’s ambiance. You know how the saying goes… “True friends are those that you can sit in comfortable silence with and still have the best conversations” or something along these lines.

Makhabo and I

Anyway. During these ‘stroll into Deedee’s room and check up on her’ encounters Makhabo would come in at whatever random time she pleased, drag me out of bed and then proceed to say something along the lines of “Ao chehe, batho ba ka khotsa motho ha e le mots’eare ba bona e le ausi ea hantle ea itlhokometseng, ba sa tsebe malabulabu eo a robalang ka ona”  and then she would continue to grill me on my choices of night time wear “But Deedee my friend, hantle uena anything you come across and find comfortable to sleep in, vele you do so? Ke’ore every night I come in here and you are in yet another shocking piece of garment that I would never think to sleep in…” Well, precisely. Comfort is the absolute standard for me. 

Then there were days when she would sit in the shower with me or follow me to my room after I’d just showered and there it would come again “Deedee!!! Na ausi ea motle tje a ko tlohella baselapa hore e be tabohe ho fihlella boemong boo?A a kannete, make a plan my friend, there is no way I am allowing you to use leranthana lena again” And for that I had no genuine excuse except maybe laziness and denial that my beloved wash cloth was no more than just a piece of string- what I thought was ‘not that bad’ a tear, turned out to be beyond use in the eyes my Boobie.

The point I am making with this entry is that the prettiest and most organized people do the ugliest things. In my case it turns out - I was a lady in the streets but a literal freak in the sheets – as I was sleeping in rags and going on to use bath towels until they were beyond recognizable. For others, their ugly may be a bit more severe than this. I refer mainly to women. Embarrassing as this is for me to admit, women are the most conniving, most calculating and manipulative kind I know. Many are not afraid to use their vulnerability, their looks and in very many cases- their bodies to get what they want. It’s when the odds turn against them that they call out foul play.

I personally have heard stories from wealthy men claiming that the most beautiful women came from what seems like nowhere to seduce them and consequently consented to coitus with them only to cry rape the next morning and threaten to press charges should they not fork out ridiculous sums of money. It turns out most of them abide 1) For the sake of their reputation; 2) To maintain a harmonious state in their families.But what they do not realize is that their compliance to this madness perpetuates more of the same.

I also know of and have spoken to women who see nothing wrong with making such claims, women too obsessed with the materials of the world to understand the ruthlessness of their actions. These are women who take pride in admitting that blackmailing wealthy men is indeed the new prostitution. I mean the way I see it, such drastic measures should be just as great an offense as rape is. These kinds of women close all avenues that lead to the realization of just how socially ailed our society is.

Because of such actions, little girls, grown women and our elderly are raped every single day but remain silent for the fear that they, like these trifling concubines will be accused of settling scores. Too many women live through and tolerate physical and emotional abuse because they feel afraid to be judged in the same category as these tricks who are out here, digging for gold.

This saddens me deeply. For one, I hold immense hope that one day women will be free from insecurities that bind their social and financial progression. I have faith in the psychological emancipation of all Afrikan women as it is my belief that the reason they turn to such ugly means of acquiring their basic needs is due to the fact that they feel trapped, undermined and possibly sidelined. I want for them to reach a point where using a man for a little profit sounds as disgusting to them as it really is. I wish for women to unite and force away ills that continue to represent them as worthless damsels who are only good for milking men for their worth.  

PS: I don’t know whether the case of Zwelinzima Vavi’s accuser stands true. I do not want to involve myself too much around this case, however- it is when the media sensationalizes these accusations that we are forced to wonder where our dignity as Afrikans lies. Are we really content with having to debate these matters behind closed classroom and auditorium doors or on media forums and leaving it at that? Should we not return to the basis of which these kinds of issues stem from, educate and liberate our women? Shouldn’t we focus on teaching our men not to succumb to such allegations through payouts? President Zuma walked free from similar charges. Should Vavi walk free wont the next man and the next man and the next one after that also walk free? What happens when they all walk free? The sincerity behind every rape claim becomes questionable, and any woman who cries sexual, physical or emotional abuse will always be likened to the boy who cried wolf.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

Open Writings to Momma

---Mommy. My only rock of comfort in a foreign land---

What becomes of one

When the well from which they suckle their joy

Starts spurting bitter waters

What is to become of one

When the warm bosom on which they lay in comfort

Has turned to a thousand piercing needles 

Momma what are you saying to me?

That I should bring home the bacon?

What kind do you like momma?

Streaky? Smoked? Pepper?

What is it that you trying to tell me mummy?

That I'm not your little girl no more?

Are you saying ha ke sa le Meme-nyana oa Mpo?

Momma, like yourself, am I a grown woman now?

Mummy I thought it was just yesterday

When I lay up on your breast

Aren't you Yeyo no more?

Have your hands become weary?

Can't you carry our burdens alone like you used to?

Momma what became of your strength?

Since when did you need a man to get anything done?

Are you getting weak now mummy?

Has the world become too much for you

To swallow its pills on your own?

Momma are you saying my zone of comfort is nearing its demise?

Is this where for me life finally begins?

Am I a woman now mummy?

Is that why you treat my with such dignity now?

I don't get it though mummy

What died in you?

Has motherhood become an impossible task?

Aren't you my Daddy any more momma?

Am I an impossible child?

Momma why must I share in your heartbreak?

Was I destined for it too?

Can't I escape it momma?

Is this the curse of our lineage?

Will my legacy of happiness be determined by the consequences of your marriage? 

Do you need me the same way I do you?

Do you get as tired as I do when your not in sight?

Do your tears flow as freely as mine do should you not wipe them away

Are your feet as tired as mine get when you put me down to walk on my own

Is your back exhausted from carrying me?

Should you need some strength momma

I'm here to Help

Should you need to rest

Refresh your soul

Should you need to lie on your back to escape demons that come from under you

Rest

Should you wish to become like a child once more

Lean

Should those tears need some drying

Weep

For I am here mummy.

I have arrived

You have carved me for years now

Chiseled me into perfection

I'm sorry I cannot be the man of the house

But I am ready to be a woman

The woman you raised me into

To be strong for you in your moments of weakness

To weather away storms

Claim full responsibilty

I am ready for womanhood now mummy

You can hand down your cape

Pass me that torch, I've flexed muscles

I'll carry it from here

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution 

Tribute to the Children of Death

---Child of death, I mourn you. I feel your pain as though it were mine. I fight the same wars you have been through. May your scars heal and your heart find peace in this new life you chose---

“But life goes on, it’s just another song if you aint the one gone" Warren G

I have never feared death, well at least not in the same way everyone else around me does. If anything, death fascinates me. As a former born-again Christian who moved back to the Roman Catholic church, which I was born into, I have explored a fair share of religious cultures and have since become aware of the ideologies of the after life- as preached differently by various religious groups. Still, my influence of thought towards the after life are fundamentally based in the Christian belief system. A land awaiting us- paved with gold and complete with bottomless milk and honey.

I digress. I dedicate this piece to the victims of death, those who were brave enough to take strides towards him when they felt he was taking forever to reach their empty pursuits. I want to pour liquor to the ground, to raise my fist in salutation and sing a song of praise to those that looked death in the eye and swore with the world as their witnesses that they would be courageous enough to meet him halfway. I want to defy the nature of our culture and of societal ties by paying tribute to those that felt they had nothing else to live for and so instead opted to die for everything.

Today I would like to commend your children dear death. Those that went looking for you before you called them towards your clutches. I am curious about them and I am curious for them. I’m tempted to act like I don’t know the kind of situations that would compel one to find themselves attracted to the dark shadows of your being but unfortunately I have lived long enough to comprehend well enough, the heartache that can lead one to your escape. I only am not bold enough to abandon the dreams of tomorrow and opt to march off in an attempt to find you. Even so, you intrigue me death. 

The other day my colleague caught onto my droopy, depressed mood and he told me that I have so much to be grateful for, I was too tired to play the thinking positive card so I asked him to name some of these things I should be grateful for. I am just glad that he went the cliché route for had he told me to be grateful for anything else either than having woken up that morning then I might have had no grounds on which to base my argument. 

I apologize for it now but I snapped…no one knows better than you death how it gets for people that feel you are the only and last option they have. I asked my colleague for his theory and understanding of the afterlife, he was here telling me to be grateful for being alive yet what if in the afterlife the only thing people are thankful for is that they no longer live on Earth. What if there is no pain, no conflict, war, sorrow or misfortunes that we are subjected to on a daily basis. What if there is no remembrance of the suffering and distress that we earthlings are prone to. In my fit of rage I told my colleague off on that cold morning for his efforts to cheer me up.

Big and scary death, I do not know whether my peoples conviction on your being the human races biggest enemy holds true. For I know of greater enemies. Yes, I know of the loneliness and grief that your measures leave behind for the loved ones of your victims but who is to say that escapism through you does not lead to new waters?

Any who, this was primarily to pay tribute to those that gave in when the hurdles of life proved too heavy for them to cope. This was to marvel at their brave hearts and applaud their fearlessness. This is not about their evident selfishness or inconsiderate actions, it is about giving them assurance that I understand what very few understand. It is about making them feel better for irreversible and hastily made decisions, laying their conscience to sleep.

This is to comfort your children, those that you have seized or rather those that located you long before you thought to call them home. But it is also to remind those that wish to call onto you that we are all in this together. There is no difficulty, no pain, and no shame that is great enough to summon you before fate calls on you. This is to console those that go knocking at your door from time to time in the hope that you might answer them this time but to no avail. This is to remind every single one of them that we are all connected in our struggles.

To let them know that you are not the answer. You were never the answer. Only Hope, Faith and Prayer will keep us going. 

* These writings are dedicated to those that are no longer with us through committing suicide, those that have attempted or have thought of committing suicide because they feel that whatever they are going through is too heavy to bear. God sees you, He loves you and He has Great plans for you.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

I Slept a Child....

---Tears of my youth. Days rushed by, reminiscent of pasts that have left hollowness in spaces where love once lived. Aching bodies and tired hearts. Tears of our youth leave salty tastes in the buds of our minds. These are tears of our youth, as we cry for one more yesterday and shift heavy cargo loads onto the shoulders of those we see fit. Strong enough. Tears of my youth. The days rushed by. She slept a child, dreams of becoming a woman. Nightmares became the only reality---


Last morning I woke up feeling undermined. Disrespected even. I woke up feeling unmasked, stripped of my role in life, not of my dignity but of my right. My right to being, my right to being a child, my right to being mommas child.

You see this feeling actually started on Thursday evening. I only dragged it long enough for it to inspire my creative senses on a Friday morning. This feeling sprung on Thursday evening when momma called to tell me..No, I'm not phrasing this right, when momma called to scream in my ears;

"YOUR CAR WON'T START"
Pardon me for I laughed as I asked
"But momma what car now, I haven't bought one yet?"

She then went off on a rampage as is her nature to take to screaming when things don't go her way and you wind up messing the dialogue she had created in her head. "Hela ausi, ho ja oa bona na u letsetsa bo mang to come and fix this car hoba 'na ke khathets'e ke hoba 'M'e le Ntate. I am not forking out a cent for this"

My instinct was to hang up and tell her we'll talk later but I have claimed ownership for last words so even in this scenario, they had to be mine, "Fela Mpo le uena u ea sukulisa, on Tuesday when I borrowed it and you refused, it was not mine then but yours instead- I was the misfit that left chocolate wrappers and books lying in it but now that you need my help, it has become mine overnight?" I hung up.

 I was not having it. Or wasn't I?

Lets fast forward to Friday morning and I'm waking up to chaos. Feet shuffling in the passageway, water drops and sounds of panic bring me to my feet. Before I'm out of bed, momma has flung my door wide open "Meme, there is a leak coming from the ceiling, tlo thusane" I swear if it was not for the saliva I held in so tightly, the first words out of my mouth would have been "Aaaache. Empa 'na ke monyane, how am I supposed to help joale"

Another can opening of worms that still roam too freshly in my mind. Why is this woman so keen to tell me all the problems of this house as though I come with ready packed solutions? From frozen engines to geyser leaks? Mos who is she thinking I am? The man of the house?

I did not bother to think of the days when I was too young for my opinion to matter and hurriedly anticipated years in which she would consult me on even the purchasing of a new cutlery set. No. I was too consumed in my frustrations to realize that I am all this woman has and for that I should be eternally grateful that she gives me the front ropes on her trust cycle. Last morning I was too hung up on self and worries that belong to me to even realize the burdens that this woman has carried, for both me and her. Last morning I cried in fits of rage as I took to twitter streets to rant about my 'misfortune'.

 Broken Children. Brought up in These Broken Homes. 

Raised up with intact Hopes. 

That They Will Grow Up To Fill These Hollow Holes

 We Products of Broken Homes. 

Grew Up Broken Anyway. 

For Soaring Expectations That We Grow Up To Occupy Lonely Spaces That Won't Fill.

 Childhood is Excused. 

The Journey Of Young Adulthood Is Only a Spook.

 The Unspoken Promise Was That You Come Up To Fit This Mans Shoes

 So in Essence You Raise Me Up into the Monster You Yourself Created.

 You Raise Me To Fit Into The Shoes of The One You Chose To Hate?

 This Oxymoron. 

You Have Portrayed It In Simplistic Manners.

 The Complexity of This Situation You Engage With Eased Rhetoric

I wrote that out to momma. To make her understand my position, where I fit in in her line of expectations. I tried to make momma understand, that I could never be the man of the house, only her rock should she ever need one. I wrote that as an attempt to apologize to momma, that in her time of need I came short. All I've been to you was a child, so I resort, to my child-like ways.

But just like you

I am a strong woman now Momma

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

She's an Angry Black Woman

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--"I walk with my head held high and act like I’m cool but really-- I am scared. And you are the constellation that guides me home, the star that lights my path. You remind me of love and hope and action and dignity, like Muhammad Ali we will stand for something and I am sensitive...and knit picky about lint. And sometimes too emotional and other times not emotional enough because my youth was bruised and you massage me back to life with Your rhythm. Your words. Your spirit. " - Gina Loring ---

I must first apologize for it feels like it’s been forever since I last made an appearance in this vicinity. Life is busy and we must succumb before we can learn to make sense of this chaos.

Now that that has been cleared, the rest of the clearing should be of the heart. Of the heart because it is heavy, it is wounded, no amount of stitching will ever repair this damage that has been done. This damage that has left a woman angry and the world will never get it because it is the predisposition of black women to be angry. Anger is an emotion that any black woman is all too familiar with. It’s an action we present with passion, a feeling we grew up exposed to. It’s been a way of life for the black community for we stay angry at incidences that we have no control or say over. We remain imprisoned in shackles of anger at systems that caught us off guard and used our vulnerability against us. Systems of patriarchy, of sexism of religion all in the desire of keeping us within the boundaries of these Pandora boxes we exist in and intact behind the shadows of the puppet master that controls our thoughts, our actions and consequently, our destinies.

So yes. I am angry and I believe that my anger is justified. I will also remain angry until me freedom has come and I have the liberty to roam these streets without being subjected to a visual object for the pleasure of someone else. I will continue to march on in anger until I too regain my rightful place in society. Until I will wear what I like, speak how I feel and act how I please without stereotypes and conventions constantly placed onto me, then I see no reason why this anger should subside.

I am an angry black woman at the borderlines of mad-ville. I am angry at history, the genesis of these universal laws. I am also angry at these traditional ties that bind us to outdated doctrines of our sexuality and femininity. Principles that hold our societies and us back from progressing as a people and allowing our minds to evolve as nature had intended. 

My anger is provoked by backward minds of slaves driven by systems that have existed since the beginning of time. I am angry at the past that returns to repeat itself in the now and will again revisit us in future times only because we are too lazy to learn from the mistakes that history has made. 

 

Even America's First Lady has been accused of being an Angry Black Woman

I am angry at you because you sit on your bosom, content with your state of ambivalence. I am angry at me for even though I carry these truths I still revert to silent spaces where my and your stories are devoured by nonchalant attitudes. I am angry at mother for even in her pain she could have held on to ensure the joy of her offspring. I am angry at daddy because he abandoned his little girl for the world and its materials. I am angry at the men that I once loved because in moments of induced endorphins they promised me paradise and gold yachts, multiple lifetimes of happiness. I am angry at you the sister that we share a bond with, for I confided in you because I believed in you yet you took me for a fool, went behind my back and made me your enemy. 

I am angry because it makes me happy. This anger is a place I call home, I find my being through it and my voice finds command in its streaks. My righteous anger gives me joy; I sleep better at night knowing that my discomfort with the human race consciously worries me. I stay angry because I am born black. I stay angry because I am born a woman. I remain angry because I am bit by the curse of double oppression. It’s due to these injustices that I will not change my ways. 

I continue to be angry because it’s a feeling I cannot get comfortable with. I find pleasure in my anger because it moves me to think, it moves me to question the so called inevitable, it moves me to act for the betterment of my kind. And for a tomorrow where Angry Black Women stand to be heard and understood. To be embraced and rocked back to love. 

If it means that we start teaching them young- that apathy and dogma should not be tolerated

So on behalf of my black angry sisters. Lets bask in this anger, seize it...because a thousand angry women are bound to break systematic chains in a world where freedom of self is not yet free. 

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....